Thursday, March 31, 2005

Salmonella Enchanted

I've been poisoned again, this time by a dank chicken burrito purchased from D'Agostinos. But instead of focusing on how ill I feel, let's look forward to some exciting upcoming performances scheduled. Buckle up, it's a looooong list:

Another genius show hosted by the ubiquitous and charming Chelsea Peretti and the salmonella-riddled, you guessed it, Ms. Michelle Collins.

And get this:

It's called i.heart.internet and will be at THE APPLE STORE THEATER IN SOHO! The show will deal with our obsession with all things web related, and will include bloggers and comedians doing other web-related comedy. WEB RELATED COMEDY AT THE APPLE STORE, FOLKS!! Breaking new ground.

May 11, 6:30 - 8 pm.The Apple Store, aka "Station A"Theater, Second FloorI'm not even going to give you the address, you fuckers. Ya'll know where it is. (103 Prince Street.)

That's all for now, but I'll keep you guys updated once we've confirmed our bookings.

Finally: In a story that hasn't been confirmed by the press (other than Howard Stern) but looks to be true, Mitch Hedberg has passed away at 37 from an apparent heroin overdose. It's a real shame -- he has certainly influenced a great number of comics out there. I enjoyed reading over some of his jokes this morning, as his unique nuance and speech patterns still come across in his written word. Enjoy. [via]

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Totally Tubular

So did you hear that Heidi Klum has a new candy out? It's called Heidi's favorite candy. I bought it - cause it's fat free and made with yogurt. Upon reading the fine print, I realized that by "yogurt" she means "apple pectin", and by "candy" she means "petrified model vomit." But for some reason, I couldn't stop eating Heidi's favorite candy -- and now, four hour's later, I'M LITERALLY 14 POUNDS LIGHTER AND FULLLLLL OOOOOFFFF ENERGGGGYYYYYYY!!!! READY TO GO GO GO GO GO ! YAYYYYY GROSS TASTING BUT DELICIOUSLY ADDICTIVE CANDYYYYYYYYYYY!

But seriously folks, I threw it in the garbage. I'm a little short on time (but big on flavah), so I can't get into the many thoughts that ran through my mind while reading the packaging of this fucking horrendous markteing scheme. I think it all can be nicely summed up in this IM convo with my friend Atara:

Atara: you hear?Atara: the pope's gonna be a feedng tubeAtara: it's the in thing to doMich: haha i knowMich: soon we'll haveMich: Heidi Klum's Favorite Feeding TubesMich: From Germany

New Yorkers, Keep Reading

It is on the corner of Centre Street and Broome Street, smack in the middle of Chinatown, and is maybe the grandest building in the whole city after the Apthorp and the Frick. It's crazy.

I've passed by it a number of times, and yesterday it seemed open. A friend and I moseyed on up the front steps, where a guard resembling the last face I'd see if I were to ever betray the Russian Mafia refused to let us in to possibly the most grand entryway in Manhattan. Eventually, pathetic smiles and waves forced him to crack the door open 2 inches.

"Yes?"

Me: "Hi! What is this beautiful place!? I always pass it and wonder."

Him: "You live here? In city?"

Friend: "Yes."

Him: (Launches into 25 minutes lecture about how it used to be the former NYPD Headquarters until 1974. He refused to go into more detail, but insisted on repeating 1974 over and over again, a la Arnie Schwartzenegger in Total Recall: "And do you have any fruits or vegetables with you?" "Twooo Weeeeeeks." If you don't get the reference, rent it ASAP. We made our move to leave at least three times, but he kept luring us back in with the saaaaame stooory, not getting the things we really wanted to know about, namely, what the fuck it was.)

Eventually, he explained that now it's an apartment building with 56 apartments. If you've seen this place, you understand my obsession with it. There's a garden that looks like it could host a swell 19th Century Costume Gala.

A few minutes later, we ran into an old buddy of ours who also added this tidbit: Calvin Klein lived there, and you didn't hear it from me, but let's just say he's "invited" a lot of "young boys" to his "gorgeous domed mansion" for "gay sex." Cough.

Has anyone ever been inside this fantastic building? Does anyone live there and enjoy spending afternoon tea with the middle class? Does anyone know if this place has a fancy French name? I need stories.

UPDATEThanks to Gina, I was able to do a much more thorough Google search. What I learned about "The Police Building": It's exact address: 240 Centre Street2-bedrooms for rent at $7,000 - $11,5002-bedrooms for sale at $1,050,000 for 1,750 sf to $1,500,000(which seems like a steal to me - Under $2 mill, and walking distance to Joe's Shanghai/fish gutters.)

Here's what a million dollars (+$2,000 maintenance) will get you (according to one listing I found):Spacious loft duplex1 Bedrooms1.5 BathroomsDouble Height Living Room with Second Floor Loft BedroomTop of the Line KitchenWasher/DryerDouble Height Windows Lead to Terrace with Amazing West Sunset ExposureBuilding information: Elegant Beaux-art landmark building built in 1903. Former police headquarters for all five boroughs of Manhattan, from 1920's to 40's. 24-hour concierge and doorman, health club, common English Garden. Pets okay.

Monday, March 28, 2005

Bear With Me

What's the best way of letting your clients know that you run a business with integrity, professionalism and loyalty?

By handing him or her a business card with a picture of two bears making out on it. You'll make the sale, get a promotion, and put food on the table before the 5 pm whistle blows.

Also of note: Thanks to a friend, I was lucky enough to get my hands on a copy of the new Harvey Birdman DVD coming out on April 12. I spent the better part of my weekend at home watching the DVD's in their entirety. Take my word for it: They are a must have. $20 is a "Boca Bargoon" (as we Miamians say) for such pitch perfect animation and humor. And if you're not sold yet, two words: Stephen Colbert. Trusss.

5 Ways to Subtly Tell Your Children You Hate Them

1. Tell them that their favorite pet has cancer (whether it is true or not). Then, when their out at school, surprise them with new bedding courtesy of JeanettesTaxidermy.com. When they come home, joke that you got it at Bed, Bath and Beyond the Grave, and laugh hysterically.

How does Fido feel against your face, Timmy?

2. Ask your child if they want custom-made sneakers. They will invariably say yes. Then, head on over to JollyWalkers.com, and purchase your little one a pair of custom-made clown sneakers. When they refuse to wear these oversized canoes, throw a fit over the $275 price tag and what you went through to get your kid custom-made clown sneakers. As punishment, order the Big-Toe Hobo shoe and make your kid sleep in it.

Order now and get a complimentary Bea Arthur.

3. Surprise your little ones with a trip to Germany! Then, book a couple of rooms at the Propeller Island City Lodge. While you and your hubby are sleeping cozily, your children will be suspended 15-feet into the air in their very own cage! Or give your kids a taste of their own medicine by letting them sleep in their very own padded cell! There are many not-so-subtle ways to screw up your kid for life at Propeller Island -- make sure to check out all the accommodations.

Hotel, or the set of the sequel to Seven? Let the little ones decide.

4. Travel back in time and appear with your child on the Sally Jesse Raphael show. Assure your daughter that Boot Camp is just a Mommy/Daughter shopping spree, then watch the fireworks over and over and over again on your Beta Max player.

The site of her alone'll will at least blind 'em for a coupla days.

5. Constantly talk about how their real father/mother had hundreds of ponies and a farm made of candy, then offer your kid some sugar-free Jello.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Great Moments in History

So I FINALLY registered youcantmakeitup.org, which will now forward to my blogspot address. Therefore, you can still reach my blog the good ol' fashion way, but if you're in a hurry, and for example want to read my blog while on the run from the law or an abusive spouse, youcantmakeitup.org will work just fine. Check it out and see!

Now I wonder -- will this effect anything on this site? Like stat counters, link rankings, Google searches, etc? Do tell, I'm worried.

Off to make fancy business cards!! Oh, and if anyone wants to redesign this blog for limited coin, KIT summer camp style.

Unleavened Baby

Don't let his older sibling hide "the afikomen", or you'll end up with a matzah-clad baby in your washing machine, or baking alongside Bubby's tsimiss.

Also, note the fine detailing of this lil' guy's costume, including the very delicious looking miniature bow tie. For those unfamiliar, matzoh is a bit of the devil's trickery: looks like cardboard, but with a little margarine or jam, is pretty much the most delicious thing around.

Thanks to Carolyn O'Hara for alerting me to this very disturbing trend of dressing your baby up as sacred bread.

In fact, the more research I do, the more these unleavened babies keep poppin up! Check out these two:

Hey Mom, maybe you should stop wasting precious time dressing your kid up like kosher delicacies and take him to the doctor to get that eye checked out, hmm?

Also, if you're worried about your man's junk not being "kosher for pesach", have I got something for jew. Clear up any pre-marital sex guilt with these matzah boxer shorts, and you'll go from unleavened to good-lovin in no time flatbread.

And speaking of Matzoh Balls, here's a genuine one that IS safe to show the kids:

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Gym n' Knee Rickets

Me: Before and Hopefully After

A couple of days ago, I ranted and raved about not being able to take off a couple of added winter pounds thanks to this endless New York winter. (For those of you not in the Northeast, it's March 23, and no lie, cloudy and snowing in New York.) Pneumonia aside, my body was feeling lifeless, and something needed to be done.

That something was to go to the gym. Now, most of my friends who belong to gyms here in the city pay through the ass in order to attend some chic, designer gym that caters to their bodies and egos. For $100 a month, you get treadmills, pilates, and throngs of assholes. People who I would hate to be around in my Old Navy workout gear. On Wall Street there are two such gyms: NYSC and Equinox, which are chock full of good-looking wealthy cokeheads sweating their balls off, i.e. my ideal mens. The last thing I need is for these fellas to see me at my lowest point.

Last May, I decided enough is enough, and finally joined the masses in getting a gym membership. But where oh where would I find a gym so shitty, so bare-bones, that I wouldn't be embarrassed to work out there?

First stop, Lucille Roberts, that garish, yellow and pink nightmare that caters only to women, and from what I could see, old women. Perfect! No attitude there! Or so I thought. Ms. Roberts' prices were not that much cheaper than the higher class gyms, and their equipment looked like scrap metal culled from a burning jetliner. Plus, the women who worked out there may be old and decrepit, but I still felt judgmental eyes lurking behind me. I went outside, ate 3 Luna bars, and decided to look elsewhere.

I passed by a Curves gym, the gym for the "big and beautiful", and paused briefly. This might not be such a bad idea! Surrounding myself with heavy women who would envy my figure and ask me for tips on how I stay so "trim". I would be an inspiration! Then I found out that the owner is super Pro-Life, and, having come from my 14th abortion to date, didn't want to stir the embryonic pot. I moved on.

The next morning, on my hour long commute to work by train, I opened up an AM New York (where I get all my poorly edited, 3 day old news) and saw an ad for a place touting themselves as the "24/7 Fitness Club"... with a limited time special for only $200 a year! You mean to tell me if I have an urge to run in a precise elliptical motion at 3 am, I can? And all for the price of a dozen jars of peanut butter monthly? I didn't even need to see this place -- I was in.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I became a year long member of the 24/7 Fitness Club, a gym where the tour guide touts how cab drivers "love to work out there" because of the flexible hours, and who warn that the loud rumbling and ground-shaking is thanks to the dozen or so train lines that surround the joint. As long as they had treadmills, I was happy. My first time working out there, last May, I power walked while watching BET Rap videos, get this, on MUTE, and having to read closed captioning for various Ja-Rule songs.

Then, in July, I had a breakthrough -- I don't need a gym! I live in the most walkable city in the world! And so began my great love affair with New York. Come 5 pm, I was out the door, many times walking from below Wall Street to 79th and Broadway, sometimes all the way home a few miles north of there. I felt great, was in ok shape, and 24/7 Fitness Club fell off my cerebral map...

...for EIGHT MONTHS. I had a YEAR LONG membership, and for EIGHT MONTHS never set foot back. Sure, in the fall I still walked, but by winter wasn't walking or going to the gym, out of embarrassment for my lack of attendance.

Monday, another fitness breakthrough: I went BACK to my beloved 24/7 Fitness Club, and thankfully, it was as I had left it: stinky, decrepit, filthy, BET still mutely blasting on the screens. I jogged/power walked for 45 minutes, had a good shvitz, and called it a night.

But yesterday, friends, yesterday is when Ms. Michelle Collins kicked it up a crotch. 60 minutes, running an average 11:30 minute mile (for me, a miracle), burning over 800 calories, I kicked my own ass, Fight Club style. The result? For the next 3 hours, I was convinced I had induced a stroke. I couldn't fully see out of my left eye -- there was a blurry ring of vision, preventing me from walking like a normal human being. My brain kind of shut down altogether, and I felt like I was walking in the clouds. Now I tell myself I was probably dehydrated, but last night I was this close to calling 911 to report a treadmill/stroke related incident.

The result? I woke up with two legs made out of cinderblock. I can hardly move. People say it's "The Good Hurt". My groin says it's "torture". I'm taking a 24/7 break today, and tomorrow already have plans to get shitfaced, but hope to be well enough to get back on that charlie horse Friday evening. Pray for sunshine, and wish me luck.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

If Prince Were a Horse...

Sideshow Bobert Downey Jr.

And now, for a little celebrity math:

No wonder RDJr's insurance premiums are high -- do you realize how flammable those luscious locks are? Kid N' Play had like a $3 million insurance premium written into every contract. That's why House Party 4 cost, like, $238 million to make. (Well worth it, according to the reviewer, who claims it was "Even better than HOUSE PARTY 3!!!!!")

Monday, March 21, 2005

A Thin Line Between Lovitz and Hate

Best fact of the day: Jon Lovitz was nearly cast as Will Smith's sidekick in Bad Boys, instead of Martin Lawrence. That would have been amazing. They may as well have just started with the sequel: Bad Boys Jew.*

*Do I need to give the "I'm a Jew" disclaimer when said Jew reference isn't necessarily offensive? Would it serve to help all you Jew hating readers out there? Whip up some hate mail and let me know.

The Devil Is Among Us

And he's moving very, very slowly.

Bryan Dora, owner of the the Satanic-y sounding Dora's A-Dora-ble Pet Shop, says that he's spotted an image of Satan himself on the back of a turtle. But before your get your machetes and torches out, ready to storm your local turtle shoppe (or "Devil's Sanctuary"), you best bring with you a flame-retardant unitard, cause these little guys are packing a lot of heat.

You see, it all started when Dora's A-Dora-ble Pet Shop burst into flames. Sadly, all of the animals perished... except for one. One menacing, conniving turtle... named Lucky.

Lucky was the only turtle to survive the inferno. Mr. Dora, blinded with rage and questioning the existence of God, was delightfully reassured that God was still up to no good when spotting the face of the Devil in Lucky's shell.

It's funny, the more I stare at it, the more I CAN make out the face of Paige Davis.

Not making news this morning is this turtle, named Ducky, in whose belly was spotted a cob of corn.

Oh, and if you want to actually hear these Not Safe For Work porny voicemails, go right ahead. I've just added a melon baller to my Amazon wishlist, so one of you lucky folks out there can help me in the quest to gut my inner ears out so that I may never have to hear Smarmy McTittyTwister's voice ever again. (Thanks to Screenhead for all this NSFW action)

Update: Here's a pic of Lucky minus the glare, as well as a pretty hilarious BBC article on the topic, that ends on the sentence: "It is unclear to what extent Lucky's Satanist credentials will enhance his sale value."

Friday, March 18, 2005

When You Wish Upon Your Blog

The fairygodmother of my nightmares.

A certain friend of mine made a big stinkaroo about her Amazon wishlist, and I balked. Then, people started getting her things, and I cried with envy.

Here's my wishlist. If anything, learn about the products I dream of receiving at night. And really, people, I feel dirty and wrong even doing this, but you know what? FUCK. IT. Oh, and don't read into which products are listed first. It doesn't mean anything. For example, I'd kill my first born for a reasonably priced digital camera, and it's listed as number 19 or 20 I believe.

Everybody Have Pun Tonight

Seems like some of you are forgetting to check out my other blog, Punrise Punset, as we've had only one hit today, and that was me. So check it out -- you never know which day of the month we might post something.

Other possible titles for post:

You've Been Pun-kedPun-ping IronSome Pun to Watch Over Me

UPDATE! I'm a little miffed to discover that Punrise is not the first of its kind. In fact, there's an even worse, more poorly designed pun website called, appropriately, Badpuns.com. The more I delved into the world of pun-sites, the more I discovered. Top Pun, a borderline genius URL, with a clever if not slightly insane manifesto called PUNS NOT GUNS. Finally, Pun Liners, finally a site I believe Punrise trumps in both design and cleverness.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Earning My Badge in Bulemia

I found this hilarious dramatization of "binge eating" on a Hungarian website. Appropriate, as Hungary is chock full of bony, brown-toothed ladies. My mother used to say that Hungarian girls have long faces, since their mothers had to squeeze them out of their skinny little bodies. Don't be fooled... my mother's a class act all the way. On to the topic of today's convo...

A funny thing happens in the winter. There you are, circa September, lookin good and feelin good (Louis), svelte as you're gonna be. You spot fat people on the streets and think "How can they let themselves get that way?" and shudder, not so much in disgust, moreso in that you superimpose your face over theirs as they stuff their pie holes with fatty foods and the fact that you secretly envy them doesn't sit well with you. You're happy! It's a beautiful day out. You take a long walk and forget for a second that you're single and in a dead end job.

Next thing you know, November rolls in. The dreaded "holiday season". No matter -- you know the 5 pounds you put on is probably somehow related to hormones and Christmas music. So your jeans are a little tighter -- you look good girl! Show off that big womanly ass of yours, Miss Thang! Let those jeans be tight. You can offset it with an off the shoulder shirt that will take some of that midsection attention away until January.

But the holidays alone aren't your downfall. You look at gotham outside the frost-bitten windows and it's exactly as Tim Burton imagined: bleak, dreary, damp. The type of weather that encourages endless hours of reality tv show marathons. The type of weather that says "Hey Ladyfriend! Everybody Loves Raymond is on -- and it's the episode where his parents come over! Come on, I got all the Snackwells cookies you need. Come home already." And you listen, because it's been so long since anyone's spoken to you.

Christmas feasts. New Year's drinking binge. Martin Luther King Day buffet. Then the groundhog comes up and says "Hey Michelle! Fuck you! Rot in your uptown apartment for 6 more weeks, cunt!" And again, you listen, because you're scared of groundhogs ever since you saw The Shining.

And now, cut to today. March 17. St. Patrick's Day. 10 pounds heavier. An expert in Real World/Road Rules Inferno. I'm disgusted with myself. Sometimes I wonder if maternity pants are onto something with their elastic bellies. For, in a way, I'm pregnant too, only my fetus is decomposed of Greek yogurt, roast beef, broccoli pancakes, Smart Start cereal and Cherry Garcia fro-yo and the babydaddy is the Pillsbury Doughboy (9 inches!). In other words, when Kirstie Alley starts becoming an inspiration and spiritual guide, you know you've got to take action, either in the form of a serious diet or contracting "dropsy of the brain", and putting the world and myself out of our mutual misery.

Last night, a breaking point, when, slightly buzzed and exhausted, I polished off a plate of deep-fried plaintains that weren't even that good because they were there. It's amazing what 32 oz. of vodka can convince someone to do.

Clearly, enough is enough is enough. Not to get all terrible-female-comedienne-joy-behar-cathy-comic-strip on your ass, but today was to be the day that the exercise goes up and the food consumption goes down. After all, it's getting a touch warmer (38 degrees today, yes?), and I miss my long sidewalk strolls. I can feel it.

Imagine my dismay, then, when I show up at work this morning to find a box of Samoas on my desk. About 4 months ago, right in the thick of my gorging, I had ordered a single box from a pushy co-worker of mine. Little did I know that these cookies would be delivered to me a third of a year later on the very day I decide to quit food. Worse yet, there's a picture of a small, sparkly-eyed 7 year old on the back of the box, smiling with only her mouth the way that baby pageant queens do, in a fireman's hat:

Look at her. I can hear her saying to me "Thanks for buying my cookies, Michelle! Aww c'mon. Treat yourself to one. Please? My grammas in the hospital and can't eat cookies no more. She would want you to have one." AND my boss, the very same boss who repeated the same funny story to me three times today, causing me to have to fake laugh all three times, something I hate doing, buys TEN boxes and leaves them in the kitchen. Hmm... maybe I could trick my metabotchilism with a coupla thin mints... Even the name is better than Samoas. When I think of Samoans, the first thing I think of are fat Samoans, and then mu-mus.

Sigh. Thanks for listening.

In other semi-food related news, last night I was introduced to Rachel Kramer Bussel, a feisty, quick-witted lass who you may also know as Lusty Lady. Perhaps this isn't the proper post to bring this up, but Rachel also runs a cupcake blog, Cupcakes Take the Cake, and judging by her enthusiasm for these tiny frosted treats, I'm guessing she can make a kick-ass cupcake.

Where I'm headed if this behavior continues. Special thanks to Morgan Spurlock for "educating me" about "delicious things."

Dasani-One Know What I Mean?

Let's start off with: Commercials? Who are we talkin about here -- McG?! So fine, let's say he needed to make a quick buck to buy a new pair of Wallaby's. Of all the products on Earth, WHY DASANI? This has to be the foulest, most after-taste leaving H2NO on earth. I'd rather lick acid rain off a homeless dog's paw then imbibe this mineral-pumped liquid. OK, not quite, but I'd definitely rather drink a SoBe, number 2 on my things of not to drink. (Absinthe is a paltry number 14, following clam juice and Gary Busey's saliva.)

The idea for the commercial itself is also pretty nightmare inducing -- check out this picture for starters:

No amount of whimsy or chamber music will make that human mouse any less creepy. The premise is that animals drink more water than humans, so they would probably have a better idea about what's delicious water. Yeah, that's a great one -- the dog that lives in my imagination drinks out of the toilet whether or not it's flushed, so I'm sure he'll just loooove Dasani.

Word the the Wes: How about instead of making second-rate water ads, you film this little ditty of a short movie that I wrote about a woman who pretends her and her 5 year old daughter are best friends/roomates so as not to scare off any potential boyfriends, film it, cut it, Fed Ex it over to Jimmy Brooks and get this little "career" of mine launched already, you prick.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

No Words

Monday, March 14, 2005

And Then There's Maudlin

Until some unique YCMIU blogging appears later today, here's a lil something I just posted over at TVGasm.

Every Sunday evening, I like to curl up with a nice, 28-ply cashmere throw, sip imported tea from a rare Mesopotamian golden goblet, and flip my 48-inch plasma television to ABC to catch Extreme Home Makeover, where poor and unfortunate people are given homes and various other accoutrements, largely sponsored by Sears. In the past, I would watch in glee and sadness as the blind, deaf, autistic, widowed and cursed heartland of America was given one more chance of freedom, of hope.

Last night’s episode, however, went overboard. While part of the show’s fun lies in bequeathing Kenmore appliances to the poor, one of the most interesting parts is seeing how the troupe of 500-plus builders, contractors and designers puts together a house in only seven days. Yesterday it was Kassandra Okvath, an adorable 8-year-old girl battling cancer, who requested that the show redecorate the children’s cancer ward at the University Medical Center in Tucson, Arizona. The show obliged, but also secretly gave Kassandra and her large family unit a brand new home themselves. Overall, a grand idea.

But lately, the shows self-congratulatory testimonials and interstitials have seemed to overpower the design aspect, so that instead of seeing the house being built we’re seeing Ty Penington give knuckle sandwiches to the staff, making video clips of himself for the family, and shouting at the staff/America using an unneeded bullhorn. Ty Penington: Carpenter with a Soulpatch of Gold.

In addition to the usual cringe-worthy antics of Ty, we had a whole load of other bullshit to put up with last night. One of the designers decided to write a children’s book inspired by Kassandra’s life, entitled something akin to “The Power of Love” or “A Child’s Love”, etc. The designer, Pat O’Theback, tearfully explained the concept of the book, which then led to a Reading Rainbow-style cartoon mock-up of the illustrations with a young child reading the prose. This lasted roughly 2 minutes, i.e. 2 minutes too long. Sitting alone in my Soho loft, petting my Norfolk terrier Coco, I shouted to everyone and no one at the same time “Why am I watching this?!?” The concept of the show in itself is shlocky. The last thing ABC needs to do is drizzle more sadness and affection on top of emotions that speak for themselves.

Later on, a female designer named Chris Myass told of an adorable anecdote (note: vomit-inducing). When small Kassandra (a real doll of a kid) was waiting to see their new digs, she was shivering. The designer, in a fit of kindness, lent the little girl her coat -- a pink, hooded nightmare that would only look appropriate on a girl of 8, and which coincidentally fit her like a glove. Cutting to a testimonial, Chris explained how generous she was, saying “Kassandra looked so adorable in my coat…. Yes, she can keep it. (big, self-congratulatory smile).” Well whoopdeefuckindo. These people are being given a stunning adobe-style mansion and we’re wasting a minute of airtime talking about your goddamn coat that just got off the hein-train, last stop, My Incinerator?

Meanwhile, the house was gorgeous, as was the hospital they redecorated (albeit with Disney characters – nice tie-in, ABC.) But did we see how it happened? No. Why? Maybe because ABC is really milking this dying cow for all it’s worth by airing another episode Monday nights called “How’d They Do That?”, which is basically what the show used to be before it turned into the Jerry Lewis Hell-a-thon. Note to ABC: When you pepper the whole show with crying morons and over-the-top shmaltziness, it really takes away from the climax of tears at the end of the episode. And seriously? Ty Pennington? YOU’RE A GROWN MAN. Act as such.

Oh, and p.s.: Nice book title. Ty’s Tricks. I know a lot of guys in the West Village who’d love to talk to you about your… “tricks.”

Today’s meaningless rant brought to you by: Day jobs. When life serves you lemons, squeeze ‘em on your wounds.

Friday, March 11, 2005

Cyster Soldier

Can somebody please, please explain to me why, every 28 days or so, my body decides to implant a 12 pound cyst deep in the recesses of my facial tissues, a lump so painful and distracting that all I can do, all day long, is picture this little lady setting up shop in my jowels:

What are you so fucking happy about? Asshole.

Perhaps these women can answer my question? And why do they call it MEN-struation? Shouldn't it be WOMEN-struation? And what about GUY-necology? Shouldn't it be GAL-necology? Excuse me for a second...

By the way, one of my favorite paintings ever, The Death of Marat, by Jacques-Louis David.The backstory here.